


Make Me Feel

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Kissing, Love Confessions, Oral Sex, Pining, Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: My first Jaskier x Reader fic, written as a request. You work at a small-town inn that the Witcher and bard cross through sometimes. You have an immense crush on Jaskier, but you presume it’s one-sided, until one late night and one too many cups of wine makes your tongue loose.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/You
Comments: 9
Kudos: 95





	Make Me Feel

He's played at your inn on more than one occasion.

Your village isn't huge, but it's settled on a main road right before a mountain path, so it sees many different folk from different walks of life. You've worked at the busy, cosy inn since you were ten years old, when the matronly owner took a shine to your moxie. Now it was all you knew, and you were content; you had a place to live, entertaining guests, and enough leisure time to enjoy a book by the river, or a quiet night in with warmed cider.

No guests had been as interesting as that of Geralt of Rivia, and his company, Jaskier. How could they compete, though? A Witcher, and a bard of great repute and talent. Every time they crossed through your sleepy town, you were delighted.

You remembered the first time they had entered the inn; you'd been a sight, stocking barrels of ale, red-faced and sweating under the effort of your work. Naturally, your eyes had fallen upon Geralt first; the man was enormous and imposing, and he looked as if he wanted to be anywhere in the world but where he was. There was an air about him that warned against any interaction; not _threatening_ , necessarily, but it seemed to go unspoken that he didn't have the time or patience for you.

Jaskier was an entirely different story.

He was well-dressed, and bright of eye – you couldn't decide if they were ocean-blue, or seafoam-green, as the light struck them differently – and he was gesticulating as he chattered, a one-sided conversation that Geralt seemed to only vaguely be listening to.

And then he turned to you, brushed away a few of the brunette locks of hair that had fallen out of place, and he grinned, all ivory and sunshine.

You felt your heart do something very peculiar, and your mouth suddenly felt parched; gracelessly, you hefted the barrel to the ground, tried to clear your throat and brush your own hair back into place, hoping you at least looked _vaguely_ competent, and your answering smile was wobbly and shy. If he noticed your fluster, it didn't register on his face, and he leaned on the counter.

“Hello, love.” He chirped, and you didn't feel your usual urge to get slap-handsy when a man used that pet-name, “I don't suppose you have room for us? We'd love to stay the night, get some decent food... and my friend here needs a bath.” Geralt grunted. “What? You _do_. You smell like that thing you killed-- were you _inside_ it at any point? Actually, don't answer that.”

There was no danger of Geralt answering. You, on the other hand, felt like cursing. The way the bard talked, the way he gestured to his _friend_ – it seemed to you that there was more going on there. _Damn it._ Rarely did you get butterflies for anyone, and of course the man that caught your attention was not only famous, he was also probably not interested in anything under your skirts.

You tried not to let disappointment show on your face. “Of course. Two rooms...?” You asked, hopefully. Okay, so maybe you were in denial.

“One.” Geralt had corrected, and didn't elaborate. _Double damn it._

“Of course. I'll have the water boiling for your bath immediately.” You flipped open your guest register, and bit your lower lip, regarding Jaskier with some thought. “Good bard, I don't suppose... well, it can be _awfully_ dull in this village, and I've heard such tales of your singing--”

“I'd be honoured to play tonight.” Jaskier finished your thought; apparently he was asked fairly often. “In fact, I'm working on a new song. I just can't quite get the chords right in the chorus...” He trailed off, and shrugged.

“Oh! Well, I'm sure... I mean, you're so talented, I am sure you'll find them soon. I mean, I am sure it'll, um, come together.” _Stop raving!_ You'd scolded yourself, and you'd continued in what you hoped was a more sane manner, “We would be pleased to discount your room in exchange for your entertainment.”

Geralt grunted, a _hmmm_ sound, but you were busy making eyes at Jaskier, who was pulling his lute from his shoulder. “I suppose you do have your occasional uses, bard.” The Witcher's voice was like the low rumble of an incoming storm, and you understood then why he was so feared. Beside Jaskier, he looked like an actual animal; some manner of wolf-bear hybrid, maybe.

“Here is your key,” You'd handed it over to Geralt, still smiling, “It's the second room on the left, up the stairs. Please don't hesitate to ask if you are in need of anything.”

“Thank you, love!” Jaskier had dismissed you, trotting up the stairs and out of sight. You'd watched him go, and Geralt had given you a look that you hadn't understood at all.

–--------------

The evening is cold, and it keeps many customers from leaving their homes. You only have the usual lushes for company, and the time is dragging. When the door opens, you glance up from your slouch at the bar, and instantly perk up when you recognise two silhouettes. “My good Witcher, bard!” Your voice is an octave too high, but you don't even care; you're just glad for the change of pace. “Your usual room? I'm afraid it's too quiet to request the privilege of your song, Jaskier--”

“Two rooms.” Jaskier asks of you, and you note the weariness on his face. “We have the coin, and Geralt needs rest. He's recovering from a poison.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Poison? Shall I fetch for the town healer?”

“No need,” Geralt grunts out, “It'll work out of my body by dawn. I just need to sleep.”

Nodding your assent, you slide a key across the bartop at him. “Last door on the right, good Witcher. It's a smaller room, but the bed is like a cloud. You will sleep well.”

He mutters something that might be his thanks, and then he's trudging up the stairs; your eyes follow him, concerned, before you return your stare to Jaskier.

“And I suppose that leaves your usual room for you, if you intend to turn in now...?” You produce a second key, as Jaskier shakes his head.

“I need _wine_ , love. Whatever you have that is good and strong.” With a groan, he sits at the bar. Wordlessly, you move to do his bidding, placing a goblet down in front of him, beginning to pour. “Actually, you know what? Drink with me. Drinking alone is so sad, don't you think?”

You look at the wine, at the one solitary patron who's almost asleep at the table he's sat at – he'll be gone in a half-hour, like clockwork – and you raise your shoulders in a shrug. “Well, if you'd like. But you're paying for me.” Cheekily, you smirk at him, and he manages a laugh.

“I'm not sure I could afford you, love.” He muses, and you giggle.

“Got _that_ right.” You affirm, as you sidle over to the sign that proclaims the inn open for business, flipping it; you're officially closed. Then you grab yourself a second goblet.

–--------------

“I swear, I swear to the _Gods,_ he's gone for an _entire_ day and night – I've worn a path pacing at the camp. I'm in the middle of nowhere, love; the closest town is a day's ride, and of course the bastard has Roach. So anyway,” He takes a huge mouthful of wine, “I'm torn between going to look for help, but who the fuck do you hire for to look for a Witcher? A _bigger_ Witcher?” He snorts, and you laugh with him, sipping your own wine. The bottle is half-empty, and there is a second beside it, depleted. “So, yeah, I'm about to have a good old fashioned breakdown, and Geralt comes stumbling into camp like one might return from the market. I ask him where the hell he's been, and he says – _get this_ – he says _out._ ”

You laugh again, taking another swallow of the good wine. You felt fuzzy and safe, and you loved the sound of Jaskier's voice, whether he was telling a story or singing. “Out? That's all he gave you?”

“That's all I got!” Jaskier flusters, drains the remainder of his cup, and pours more. “Eventually he admits that he's fighting of some kind of... giant spider poison, and that I shouldn't worry. Right, _don't worry_ – he's already paler than a wraith, and I swear he's somehow turned whiter than that.”

“You must love him very much.” You murmur, tracing a circle around the rim of your goblet, your chin pillowed in your hand.

The bard starts, giving you a double-take; he raises one eyebrow, his expressive features questioning. “I mean, yes. He's my best friend.”

“Oh, Jas',” You sigh, wetting your lips again, “I've known you long enough for you to trust me. I see the way you are with him. And honestly, good for you,” Casting your gaze down, you fiddle with the wine cork, “You deserve to be happy.”

“Love,” His voice is lowered, “I am not _with_ Geralt. Are you serious? He'd **crush** me.”

This confession has no lie hidden in it, and your eyes fly back up to meet his effervescent baby-blues, wide. “But-- I mean, I intend nothing by _saying_... but you...”

“Are fabulous. I know. I like men, love.” He agrees, before he reaches over to brush your cheek. His hand is soft, save for the callouses on his fingertips from strumming his lute. You shiver. “But I like women, too. What can I say? I like to try a bit of everything beautiful that the world has to offer.”

Your mouth is slack, and you're tipsy enough to continue the conversation instead of dissolving in embarrassment. “But-- you-- you always _share a room--_ ”

“Travelling is _expensive_ , love. We trade the bed – although sometimes he doesn't sleep, he just broods in the chair by the window.”

“I could have been undoing the laces on my bodice _all this time_ and ‘accidentally’ brushing your hand and--” Your hand claps over your mouth, and now you're flushing. He grins wickedly at you.

“Are you saying you've been harbouring a _crush_ on me, love?” His voice is playful, sing-song, and you can't help but giggle girlishly, suddenly very interested in the rest of your wine. You are pretty sure he can feel your blush, considering how heated it is on your cheeks. “Because... I've wanted to sit your beautiful rear in my lap every single time I've come here.”

“You _have?_ ” Your voice is a squeak.

“I have.” He affirms, reaching across the bar for your hand, “Only I felt like you were keeping me at arm's length.” That grin tugs at his lips again, that beautiful smile, and you lace your fingers with his, brushing your thumb across his knuckles. “Now I understand why.”

“I feel a fool.” You confess, nibbling at your lower lip.

“I feel as if we have time to make up for.” Jaskier responds, before lifting your hand to press a kiss against it. “Where is that key, now?”

–--------------

He closes the door behind you gently, but the way he pushes you against it is less controlled; you tangle your hands in his chestnut hair and accept him readily, pressing your lips to his in a greedy kiss. He tastes of fine wine and something faintly sweet, and you lick into his mouth with abandon, drinking of his responsive groans, grazing teeth on lips and breaking away only to breathe in heated pants. You feel the sinew of his body, not muscular but certainly defined from a life of travel; you also feel his hardness press into your soft belly and know now without a doubt that he doesn't mind at all what is between a person's legs. You find that fact endearing somehow; he is a searcher of souls, an artist through-and-through.

“I seem to recall a promise about lap sitting.” You purr against his mouth, and he smiles; you kiss his chin, the slope of his jaw. Your fingertips are already at the buttons of his doublet, undoing them with clever quickness.

“I didn't promise,” He corrects, “I said I _wanted_. But that's too shallow a word, I think.” His hands are at your waist, chest bared to you; he shrugs his shirts away as he guides you backward to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. “I yearned for it,” Tugging at your skirts, unlacing the ties; they drop to the ground, “I _ached_ for it,” He looks up at your eyes for permission, and you give it to him with a shy smile as he slips your silky knickers down your legs, “I dreamed about it. Gods, love, I think... I think I've written songs about you, and not even _known_ it.”

“Really?” The hush of your voice is reverent, as you climb into his lap, granting his wish; your bare rear is plush on his thighs, and he can't help but grasp the flesh, kneading it. You sigh and rock a little, finding the barest friction against the fabric of his trousers. It's not enough.

“ _She watches me with eyes afar,_ ” His voice is low and as beautiful as you remember it, a soft croon just for you, “ _I long to touch, but stop in fear._ ” Mouth on your shoulders, kissing, as he unlaces the back of your corset. “ _I only know her 'cross the bar,_ ” You smile again, “ _I sing for her; she does not hear._ ”

“I heard.” You tell him, letting the fabric of your top drop away to leave you bare before him, all delightful curves a playground for his searching hands, stroking you, cupping your breasts. A moan trembles in your throat. “I listened to every song, _every_ word.”

“How could you have not known that I sang for _you,_ love?” He asks, and the missed opportunities flash between you again. But that was then. Now, you bend down and kiss him again, pressing your chest into his, a little squeal slipping from your lips as he lays back and takes you with him.

You slide your hand down his bare chest, sitting astride his thighs; he watches you with pale, candle-struck eyes, his lips parted. When you reach the laces of his breeches, you pause to palm his cock, and he moans at the sensation, grinding his hips upwards eagerly. You make quick work of the fastenings, and don't even bother to push the garment down his legs, freeing his length. “I need you _now_.” Your admission is a sultry whisper, and he nods dumbly, watching as you slink back up his body, positioning the engorged head of him at the slick of your cunt.

As you lower yourself onto him, you both moan openly at the sensation; without foreplay, you're tight, but you're wet and ready for him, and you lean back a little to support yourself on his thighs as you sheath him fully, your clit kissing the slant of his pelvis, his hands fisting the sheets. He's starting up at you as if you are a deity, as if you placed every single star in the sky exclusively for him; coyly, you squeeze your muscles, and his breath staggers from his chest.

When you begin to move, it's a lover's rock; you roll your hips in a rhythm that allows you to feel him fully, and he knows exactly when to lift up to meet you, to press against the roughness of your g-spot; he feels _amazing,_ and within moments you're whimpering. Reaching up, he cups your heavy tits, squeezing, flicking your flushed nipples, grunting his own pleasure. “You're _so gorgeous_.” He tells you, a rush of breath like a sinner in a priest's confessional; your answer is a mewl as he bottoms out in you again, your spine arched, your ride a lustfully languid experience.

He puts his hands on your hips and rolls you, making you gasp; he withdraws briefly to shed his trousers, earning him a huff of impatience from you, but he's above you again before you know it, gripping your legs, resting your ankles high on his shoulders. He enters you again, the thrust of his cock smooth in this new position, and so fucking _deep_ that you instantly cry out, letting your head roll back. Holding you steady, he picks up the pace, thrusting deeply within you, releasing one leg and trusting you to keep it held up so he can rub your clit with a wet thumb. When he connects with the raw, sensitive button, you bite off his name in a gasp, rocking forward eagerly to meet his hips.

The sound of his flesh hitting yours is lewd, a loud smutty smack as his pelvis slaps your thighs and ass again and again, sweat-slick skin on skin; your toes begin to curl as your pussy quivers, and he purrs, pounding you harder. He employs the strength of his arms to lift you a little off the bed, gripping your hips, forced to abandon your clit, but it doesn't matter because he's pushed you so close to the precipice that this new depth is your undoing.

You jerk in his grasp, squealing his name, crying out as your cunt shivers and seizes around his steadily-driving length, your orgasm building in power as he grinds as deep as possible; he presses his face into your thigh and moans brokenly, unable to resist the coaxing clench of your cunt, and he hunches over you as he joins you in climax, the jerk of his cock quick within you, as deeply as he can possibly rut as he spills splashes of his come; the pleasure joins you together, two beings twinned in some other dimension that belongs exclusively to you, nothing but _feeling,_ nothing but the blissful thrill that ebbs gradually.

When you are both spent, you let your legs flop back onto the bed; he's still hovering over you, supporting his weight, slow to withdraw his cock from the sweetness of your cunt. When he does, he collapses beside you, catching his breath, and moments later he has you pulled into his side, arms around you in a post-coital cuddle.

“Gods.” Is all he has to say, and he's wide-eyed. “I feel like, erm, it's been _awhile--_ ”

You laugh. “It was amazing. I think I was pent-up, too.”

Sheepishly, he grins, kissing your forehead. “Thank goodness. I haven't come that fast or that _hard_ since I was a lad.” Smirking, you nuzzle into his shoulder, feeling entirely relaxed and adored. After a moment, he shifts, seeking to turn down the covers; you move with him, unsure, and he speaks before you have to ask. “Stay with me tonight?”

Your answering smile makes him smile, too, and you slink beneath the sheets with him, curled on your side; he spoons you bodily, hugging you close to his chest, and it's so easy to find a sleep that's restful and comfortable.

–--------------

Geralt descends the stairs in the middle of the morning, looking much less like he might keel over and die at any second. His gaze falls upon the two of you in a corner, giggling together, tucked away, trading bites of a late breakfast.

“ _Finally._ ” He grunts, announcing himself, and the two of you look up like you've been caught at a crime-scene with bloodied hands.

“Finally?” You echo, dumbly, wide of eye. He makes a gesture, pointing between yourself and Jaskier.

“Took you, what, a whole year? Gods. One of the most _boring_ mating dances to witness.” The Witcher helps himself to the food on the table.

You make an indignant sound, but Jaskier chuckles, raising his shoulders in a shrug, looping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer to him. “Well, the mating was worth the wait, _let me tell you_.”

And although you throw a grape at his head, you laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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